


Still She Dreams of Storms

by Recourse



Series: Damaged Goods [2]
Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Healing, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide attempt, Post-Canon, Post-Game(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-06 21:36:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6771145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Recourse/pseuds/Recourse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long after a disastrous fling between Victoria and Max, the two women find themselves drifting back towards each other. It's been seven years since Blackwell, but they find each other alone and struggling with their demons, new and old, and try to help each other again. </p><p>This time, they both hope they can do better.</p><p>The distant sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6687919/chapters/15296155">"Little Blue Pills."</a> This will make more sense if that's read first. Chapter 7 of that work has been transitioned into this one for a more consistent experience contained to each story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Quarter of Our Lives Gone By

**Author's Note:**

> _Well, I feel so distant from a life I wanted years ago_   
>  _Caught between this road I'm on, and where I called home_
> 
> _Bitch that I am broke, but still got money for this beer_   
>  _The letters that I wrote to you, you can't see them from here_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally located at the end of "Little Blue Pills." Moved here for thematic consistency between works.

_Maxine Fucking Caulfield: Trapped in Time._

Okay, so “fucking” isn’t really on the sign, but Tori reads it there anyway.

She spends more time than she means to, looking at the entrance to the display. People move around her, wanting to actually go inside and see the photos, and she knows she has to go in too, eventually. The owner’s waiting for her in there, to schmooze, to talk about where Tori’s display is going to be next week, when she’s going to show up for her own appearances.

God, is she here?

Tori hugs herself, looks down, lets her dyed brown hair cover her eyes. Most of the time, she thinks she’s all right. That what happened seven years ago, while not gone, isn’t all that she is. It’s not that she hasn’t been Google-stalking Max for those years, not that her whole life didn’t change, but she is more than she was back then. She’s better. She’s an artist, and a good one. She’s not a monster. Just a photographer.

She runs a hand over her face, feels the crooked line of her nose. Remembers, vaguely, what it had been like to constantly watch her appearance, her mannerisms, to be ever-vigilant to stay on top of a society that no longer matters. She’s not that person anymore. She’s _not_.

She looks up, sniffs, and brushes her hair away from her face. She can do this. Moreover, she has to do this. Maybe just to find some kind of redemption. Or forgiveness.

She watches the walls as she walks through. Some of these shots seem like they could’ve come out of Max’s old instant camera, shaken and then placed in her bag. Moments caught with precision and grace, warm colors, little contrast. But they’re offset by studio work. Monochrome, or simply cold, mechanical, shots of Max standing before white voids. Sitting alone in a row of airplane seats with nothing but sepia-colored blank space surrounding her. Hiding behind a missing poster for herself, light pouring around it. And then there’s the centerpiece.

It stands so tall above everyone that Tori’s eye is drawn to it immediately. More white void. A silhouette of the back of Max, bound to a chair with duct tape, head hanging, staring down at a giant clock with its hands on midnight.

It’s one of Jefferson’s Dark Room photos. Or it might as well be.

Tori has been following Max for years, but she knows this is all new. Probably the first time any of it’s been displayed. It’s gorgeous work, but she doesn’t deserve to see it, or appreciate it. She should just go. Make an excuse. Get—

“There she is. Tori! Tori Chase!”

God dammit.

She looks down from the photo and finds the man she’d seen pictured on the website, a pretty young dude, maybe mid-30s. Big moustache. Little round glasses. He waves her over, and she has to go and meet him, she can’t just _bolt_ the way she wants to. Because she knows who’s standing by his side. She couldn’t mistake that short figure, her soft brown hair. Her freckles. Her blue eyes.

“Tori, this is Maxine Caulfield,” he says. “Maxine, this is Tori Chase.”

“It’s just Max,” Max says with a soft smile. “And, yes, we’ve met before.” But she holds her hand out anyway, so Tori shakes it. Her skin is as soft as she remembers.

“I had a feeling,” the owner says with some smug smile. “Tori’s going to be having a show here just next week, actually.”

Tori clears her throat. “Uh, yeah. Mr. Kirk, you did say you were going to help me pick out a spot...”

“Straight to the point, as per usual, Ms. Chase. Very well. Enjoy the show, Maxine, you’ve very much earned it.”

Tori follows Kirk to an empty display space, and sleepwalks through their talk, like usual. She knows instinctively where which photos will look best, what needs to go where. And frankly, Kirk is just not that interesting, but his gallery’s hot on the Chicago scene these days and it’s a great opportunity for Tori. But she wants to leave. She wants to leave so badly. When Kirk invites her upstairs for a drink with some guests after the showing, Tori politely declines, but she wants to scream _Fuck you_ , for putting her here, with Max, and all the demons of 2013. She doesn’t. But she sure as hell wants to.

She gets out of the gallery as quickly as possible, but she doesn’t hail a cab or start walking back to the hotel. She ducks into an alley, slides her back down the wall, and pulls a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of her threadbare peacoat.

As she lights one up and takes a long, hard drag, she hears another set of footsteps approaching her. She looks up, and then looks away. Remembering another time she hid behind a building and smoked and Max came out to see her.

Max takes a seat next to her, her knees parallel to Tori’s. She lets out a sigh as Tori breathes out a cloud of smoke.

“He did that on purpose, you know,” she says.

“Why?”

“Your dedication. It’s all the critics talk about when they think we aren’t listening.”

“Fuck.” Somehow, Tori thought the _For M._ was private. That it only meant something to her.

“He’s big on the side that it’s for Max, and now he’s gonna smug it up online.”

“What else could it be for?”

“For Mark.”

“Mark?”

“As in Jefferson.”

Tori sucks in hard.

“Yeah,” Max agrees, shifting herself beside Tori.

“Fucking asshole.”

“Yup.”

There’s a moment of silence as Tori finishes her cigarette. She flicks it across the alley, lets it bounce against the opposite wall. “Max, you don’t have to stay here,” Tori says, finally. “We don’t have to be friends, or talk, or anything. You don’t need to have me in your life anymore.”

“So why is it ‘Tori’ now?”

“Max—”

“Really.”

Tori sighs, pushes some of her hair off of her forehead. “You’re still nosy as hell, you know.”

“I really do want to talk to you,” Max insists. “It feels like fate. I finally have the courage to get up and make some work about that semester at Blackwell, and then I run into you. Sure, Kirk _pushed_ fate a little bit, but...”

“I just like it better.”

“Huh?”

“My name. I dunno. It’s shorter. Simpler. Feels more real.”

Max smiles, caught out of the corner of Tori’s eye, and she looks away. God, she’s still so pretty. So nice. How is that even possible?

“Did you ever come out?"

Tori shrugs. “Got no reason to.”

“You don’t want a girlfriend?”

“Max, the last friend I had was Nathan. The last lover I had was you. Why the fuck should I _ever_ fucking act like I can be close to people?” Tori draws out another cigarette with shaking fingers. “Jesus, just go away already.”

“Tori...”

Hearing her new name in Max’s voice feels way too nice.

Max continues, “It was just one shitty semester of high school. Seven years ago.”

“You almost died.”

“I almost died a lot of times that semester, actually. You have no idea.”

“Don’t fucking blow it off like it was nothing.” Tori takes a quick, brutal drag. “Like I didn’t fuck everything up hard.”

“It wasn’t nothing. Of course it wasn’t.” Max rubs her knee absently. “But I’ve moved on. So have you. We’re different people than we used to be. I don’t want that hanging over you your whole life.”

“Well, sorry, but you don’t get to decide that. Didn’t you already figure out that trying to help me just blows up in your face?” Tori wants to just eat this fucking cigarette.

“You’re as hard to talk to as you ever were, Tori.”

Tori laughs bitterly at that. “Guess I really haven’t changed.”

“I think you’re pushing me away for a different reason now, though.”

“Fuck you, Max.”

“You already did that.”

Tori shouldn’t be laughing, she should hate that Max would even bring that up, but somehow she can’t stop herself. Max starts giggling too, and it’s so cute. Tori’s forgotten how weird it feels, to like someone this much, even with their bloody, terrible history.

Finally, with a sigh, Tori stops herself, and she’s able to really look at Max. “Okay. You wanna talk? Then it’s my turn to ask super personal and invasive questions.”

“Hit me.”

“Seeing anyone?”

“Yes."

“Girl or boy?”

“Girl.”

“Alyssa?”

Max snorts. “Tori, my dating pool isn’t restricted to the Blackwell Class of 2014, you know. Are you just asking that because she fucked up your face?”

“Kind of. She’d protect you a lot better than me.”

“We’re still online friends. She writes for Pitchfork now.”

“And how’s everyone else doing? You’re the only one I stalk.”

“Aw, that’s flattering.” Max pokes her in the ribs. “Not that I haven’t been stalking you back. Mostly ‘cuz people won’t shut up about your photos.”

“Seriously, like, what about Warren, or...or Kate?”

Tori’s surprised at how easily they slip into conversation. Max tells her about Warren’s lab job, Kate’s charity work, her children’s book series. Stella’s six-figure salary, Brooke’s government gig, Dana and Juliet working on their masters’. Tori mostly just listens. Max talks about her girlfriend, Lauren, a studio technician who helped her make a bunch of _Trapped in Time_. She shows her a picture on her phone. Victoria would’ve called her ‘fat’, ‘dumpy’, other bullshit, but she’s actually pretty cute, and Max looks so happy in that picture. Tori calls them adorable.

She goes through a lot of cigarettes. “So you’re still doing that,” Max says, pointing as she pulls another from the pack, “Which is bad and stupid and I hate it, but are you...are you still cutting?”

Tori feels her thighs through her loose skirt, little bumps under the fabric. “...sometimes,” she admits. “Not often, but...when it hurts.”

“When what hurts?”

Tori shrugs, sticks the cigarette between her teeth. “I dunno. Everything. But mostly...” She breathes out. “Mostly when I’m missing you, or, God, Nathan. Of all people.”

Max ponders that for a moment. “You really haven’t met anyone since Blackwell that you wanted to be friends with?”

“Of course I have, it’s just...I shouldn’t, right? Either they’re bastards from the start or they’re good and I fuck them up.”

“No, you should.”

“Why?”

“Well, maybe it’ll make your work less creepy, if nothing else.”

Tori chuckles. “People like my creepy pictures, thank you.”

“And you are a different person, now. You really are, or you would’ve already told me to get out. You deserve to be happy.”

Tori thinks on that, smoking her cigarette. Max checks her phone.

“We’ve been out here a lot longer than I thought,” she says. “I really should get back to my hotel, Lauren will kill me if I call at two AM again.”

Tori stands up with her, and they face each other in the eerie quiet of the alley. Tori wants to kiss her. So badly.

“Hey. Let me get your number,” Max says. “If you ever want to talk.”

Tori nods and pulls her phone out, swaps it with Max’s, punches in a new contact. As they pass the devices back to each other, Tori feels their fingertips touch and shivers. But she won’t, she won’t fuck this up again by trying to ruin her new relationship.

Instead, Max kisses her.

Tori wants to push away at first, insist that this is a mistake, but it’s a chaste kiss, long, sure, but there’s no passion in it, no urgency. It still gives Tori goosebumps. Her head spins like it hasn’t in ages, her nerves fire, and she feels alive.

As they pull apart, Tori stammers, “Y-you have a girlfriend.”

“I do. And I’m keeping her,” Max confirms. “But I guess I just wanted to see what it would feel like. You still taste gross. Seriously, drop the cigarettes. And find a nice girl, and then be nice to her.”

Tori just nods, sniffling, tears welling in her eyes. Max hugs her.

“Wanna share a cab?” she asks.

“N-no. I need a minute or two.”

“Okay.” Max rubs her back. “Call me sometime.”

“I will.”

As Max walks off into the night, Tori wipes her eyes, hugs herself in the cold. When Max is out of her sight, she pulls out her phone, because she wants to just call her and tell her she’s so sorry, she’s so fucking sorry, she still hasn’t really apologized and that’s fucked up and it’s wrong and it’s awful and...

But her thumb stops as she scrolls through the contact list. Most of them are gallery owners or publishers or editors, agents and studios. But before Max, there’s Jackie. The girl who’d modeled for her the last time she came to Chicago, and asked her out to coffee afterwards. But Tori had had to catch a plane. And she’d been afraid.

Jackie’s nice.

“Hey, it’s Tori. I know this is weird, but I’m in Chicago right now, and I could really use some company...”


	2. Peeling Away

This is a bad idea.

It was a bad enough idea a month ago. It is a worse idea now.

A month ago, Max had been fairly happy. A nice boyfriend. A mind largely at peace despite the secrets it holds. Still riding high on the catharsis of art, after a long tour of a series based around that terrible autumn of 2013. Awards and accolades and a frankly silly amount of money. Along with a couple of lies. That this was based on some fantasy of saving Chloe, instead of actually doing it and facing down all the consequences. The same shit she tells her therapist, and sometimes she can believe it. That it’s all a grief-induced delusion. At that point, she’d gotten the call from Victoria.

No. Tori now. Always Tori. She insists very particularly on that, and Max hasn’t slipped up, not once, except in her own mind. But as she walks towards this dingy little bar on a side street near the ass-end of Chicago, the word floating through her head is Victoria. Victoria, the bully. Victoria, the damaged and vulnerable. Victoria, the...the abuser. That’s what her therapist tries to drill into Max, always. Victoria _abused_ her. Twelve years ago. Before a name change, before an attitude change, before a career in strange surrealism that rose right alongside Max’s and keeps going quietly in the corners of the scene. Before a meeting when they were both twenty-five, when Max was sure of herself and sure that she could help Victoria properly this time.

Before Tori’s thirtieth birthday. Before Max’s sudden breakup. Short, sad, hard to comprehend. It had all seemed fine. Max had been content. But he hadn’t.

That’s what she’s facing down now. Meeting an old ex with a bloody history, with new pain in her chest and alcohol close at hand. If they even count as exes. Do two drunken hookups and a suicide attempt count as a relationship?

Fuck, there she is.

She looks nothing like Victoria, and yet she does. She keeps her hair dyed brown these days, she keeps it long and hanging over her face, but her brows are still blonde. Her nose is crooked from an old, probably well-deserved punch, but that flaw somehow brings out the rest of her face, the strong cheekbones, the perfectly molded lips, the brown eyes that can probably still kill if she tries. The lack of substantial makeup somehow draws out her features more. Same with the the loose black t-shirt, the cargo pants. She sits alone at the end of the bar, face like a stormcloud, and. Somehow. Somehow, she’s prettier when she doesn’t try.

Jesus, Max, you haven’t even had anything to drink and you’re staring. You shouldn’t have come here.

But Tori sees her and her face lights up, she picks herself up off the table and folds her hands in front of her. She smiles all shaky and hesitant. Max can’t back out now, can’t claim a delayed flight or a traffic problem or anything at all to make this not happen. Can’t do the smart and healthy thing and sever and never look back at 2013.

She settles in next to Tori, and just lets out a stupid “Hi.”

“Well, I’m glad somebody made it,” Tori says. “This week has been _shit_.”

“I know what you mean.”

“You want a drink?”

Max remembers. Her first time drinking. The same time that Victoria took her virginity and left her sobbing in a parking lot. And the second time. Even worse results.

“No, I think I’m good.”

“Suit yourself.”

As Tori starts to nurse the beer she has in front of her, Max has to ask. “I thought there were supposed to be more people here? I thought...”

“Yeah, that was before Jackie dumped me.”

 _Shit_.

“Some shit about...caring about my art more than her. Or something. And you know, all my friends were really her friends.”

_Shit shit._

“I’m so sorry, Tori.” _Do not_.

“But hey. Thirty! Adult, right?” Tori smiles at her and raises her beer. “Made it!”

“Aren’t we supposed to be adults at twenty-one?”

“Like anybody really has their shit together then.”

“Are you implying we’ve got our shit together now?”

“Well, you do, right?” Tori gestures in her general direction. “Sure as shit more than me, at any rate. God, remember the last time we talked?”

Max remembers, all right. Behind a gallery. Trying to make things right. Tori promising to call her, and then waiting five years to actually do it. Max had hoped that was a good sign, but it’s starting to distinctly look like it wasn’t. Tori’s definitely got a little of that art-scene shabby chic going on, but Max is fairly certain that the dark circles under her eyes aren’t just an affectation.

Sure. Like one talk where you tried to help her would change everything, undo all the damage that semester had done. Like you could convince her to quit cigarettes with a kiss and a reprimand. She still smells like them. Like anything’s that easy and quick. Her therapist’s words echo in her head. _Healing is gradual, and deep wounds still leave scars. Accepting what happened means accepting that it’s changed you, and deciding what changes you want to keep despite their source._

“Uh, Max? You there?” Tori cocks her head at her. “Or is this just gonna be me talking to myself the whole night?”

Max clears her throat. “Sorry, I’m a little distracted.”

“What, I’m not interesting enough anymore?”

No, definitely not that. _Fuck_. “No, no, I...”

“Max, why’d you even come? When I called you...”

“I thought it’d be nice to see you,” Max says quickly. “It feels like we shouldn’t be so far apart all the time, you know? Like...we went through a lot of shit. As bad as it got...”

“Super fucking bad. Can we not talk about it?” Tori pleads. “Honestly. I’d rather talk about our lives now. It’s been twelve years since Blackwell. What’s got you distracted these days?”

“Well, my boyfriend broke up with me.”

Tori sucks in air through her teeth. “Okay, you know what? This isn’t a party anymore.” She chugs the rest of her beer while Max watches. As she slams it down, she says, “This is now a bitching session. My place?”

“W-what?”

“When I told you about this plan, I thought shit was gonna get rowdy. I thought my awesome girlfriend and her awesome friends were gonna be here, you’d drop in for a while, we’d hop bars, and you’d bail pretty quick after we caught up. Get a little resolution, get a little feel-good energy, then get _smashed._ That’s not happening. This sucks for both of us, and that means we need some privacy. So. My place? Or you do you have a hotel room you’d rather hang at?”

Max’s throat goes dry. Tori’s right, of course. She doesn’t really want to be out in public right now, even if this bar’s nearly deserted and out-of-the-way already. But. But there’s those old memories. Victoria’s room. Victoria’s cutting words. A bottle of Ambien and too much whiskey.

But Tori is not the same as Victoria, not anymore. And Max traveled to this stupid city to see her, after all. To talk to her. To see if somehow, things could be made right. That they could really be friends. And friends are supposed to share each other’s pain and then not fuck each other up in the process, so maybe it’s okay to give that another try. Her latest ex and her therapist probably wouldn’t agree, but, hey, they aren’t here now, are they? They can’t see the hope in Tori’s eyes. They can’t feel the appeal of the idea that things can actually be okay, between them. That they can work out both new and old wounds together if they just _talk_ to each other like people, not give each other advice or try to fix one another.

“Let’s go to your place,” Max says, after a minute. “I’m actually staying with a friend, and I don’t know that he wants two sad photographers moping around tonight. Besides, I wanna see what Tori Chase’s apartment looks like.”

Tori’s face is hard to look at. Her whole body seems to relax. “Thank God. Let’s get out of here.”

Max follows her out of the door and listens to her complain about cab service at this end of town until someone finally stops for them. As they climb in together (Max insists on paying) Tori asks, “So, anything else shitty happen this month?”

“Mostly the breakup,” Max admits. “I kinda...lost my home base with that, too.”

“What’s that mean?”

Max breathes out. _You won’t even stay in town for more than a few days at a time. How can I expect you to stay with me? You’re never here for me._ How can she explain this to Tori? The dreams of stormclouds following her just beyond the horizon. The weight in her skull, still, after all these years. The idea that she brings nothing but pain and disaster if she stays around too long, because of this ‘gift’ that she hasn’t even used in over a decade. The urge to throw away or sell or burn all her work as soon as she’s sick of looking at it, just in case she stares too long at one, and falls in. The urge to keep moving and moving and moving. Ahead of the storm. Ahead of memories. Away from downward spirals.

“All my stuff was at his place. I don’t really have anywhere else to go, so...” Max shrugs. “My whole life is pretty much in a bag and two suitcases right now.”

“Shit, Max, that sounds like poor planning on your part.”

Victoria always knows where to cut.

No, no, she’s smiling, it was a joke, Jesus, Max. Smile back. Say something smart. “Not like I actually had much stuff over there. He can keep my rainbow mug if he _really_ wants to.”

“I thought you were pretty settled, last time we met. You sure talked like it.”

“I was. I am, sort of. But it’s not in a _place_.” Max pokes her. “You, however, posted right up here in Chicago like, the day after my showing ended.”

“That’s cause I fucked Jackie into the ground that night.”

The cab driver raises an eyebrow in the rearview mirror as Max struggles to contain her laughter. “Wow, you moved faster than I thought.”

“It’d been way too long since I got laid, and she was into it. And it turned out that it’s a lot more fun sober.” Tori gives her a smirk. “And, you know. When everything is generally not fucked up.”

Max is blushing, she knows she’s blushing, but it’s still hard to talk to people about sex. Especially Tori, especially right now. She can feign hipness, though, she _can_ , so: “Y’know, I figured out the same thing, but as usual, you’re two steps behind me.”

Tori goes quiet for a moment and Max thinks, _too mean, too much, too soon, we still barely even know each other_ , but then she gets back into step with, “At least I’m a responsible adult, with a house.”

“Apartment.”

“I’m not homeless.”

“I like being homeless.”

“Didn’t sound like that a minute ago when you were sad about your home base.”

Victoria needs to stop being so damned perceptive. That’s supposed to be Max’s job. Max was supposed to help her, pull her out of a rut, not the other way around.

“Come on,” Tori goads, “I said this is a bitching session, right? Bitch. You’ll feel better.”

Well, there’s permission of some kind, so Max slumps down in her seat and puts her fingers to her forehead. “I really did like him,” she murmurs. “We were together for almost two years.”

“So why did he...”

“Same reason I’m technically homeless. I like moving around, constantly finding new things. I’ve made a lot of friends that way, all across the country, and I love them all. I thought I could love him the same way, like, we might not always be together physically, but I talked to him all the time, I...”

“Shit, if our exes could swap lives, we probably woulda been better off,” Tori interrupts. “Jackie was always needling me to _move on_.”

“What’s that—”

“We’re here,” the driver says. Max looks around, finding herself on a shabby little street with a four-story apartment building to the right. It’s got a little faded-glory aesthetic going on, like it used to be fancy before some big economic downturn, a lot of half-corroded metal and stained white stones. She suddenly wishes she had her camera. Oh, and dammit, her present is in that bag, too. She _always_ brings her camera, but maybe she’d been too distracted by the prospect of meeting up with Tori again or maybe this week really has just sucked a whole lot and Tori’s right, she needs to bitch.

Tori leads her through the building while Max tries to resist stopping to stare at every little thing that’s out of place, patched-over drywall and trash under a spiral staircase and a hundred other little signs of decay that would make pretty good shots. Tori’s on the second floor.

It’s a studio apartment, but it’s got a balcony and a surprising amount of open space. Past the kitchen counter at the front, everything seems to be covered in photographs. Most of them aren’t Tori’s — Max recognizes some as prints from friends in Chicago, as well as a couple of Max’s lighter shots sprinkled over the walls. Albums lie open on the desk in the corner, on the dresser, on the kitchen table. It looks nothing like Victoria’s clean, neat dorm room. It kind of looks like a hoarder’s den.

“Sorry about all the...everything,” Tori says, sweeping through the apartment and snatching up the albums, squirreling them onto the bookshelf as Max sits down at the kitchen table. “Trying to find inspiration earlier.”

“It’s been a while since you came out with something new...” Max prods gently.

“Yup, and money’s starting to run as dry as ideas.”

“This is why I paid for the cab.”

“Still got beer money, I’m not fucked yet,” Tori proclaims, looking over her cleaning task and apparently deciding that it is finished. She walks back into the kitchen and opens up a counter that is absolutely full of enormous liquor bottles.

“Jesus, Tori, do you only buy in bulk?”

“Literally yes.” Tori carefully selects two of the bottles, Kahlua and a vodka that even Max can tell is far from top-shelf. “White Russian?”

“Hm?”

“Max, you are thirty God-damned years old—”

“Twenty-nine.”

“Well I guess since you’re an actual child you don’t know what a White Russian is, fair point.”

Max giggles to herself as Tori starts mixing her drink. And then she starts to think. This is not pulling whiskey straight from the bottle to dull the pain of being inadequate. It’s not downing cup after cup to wipe away memories of deaths that never happened. It’s just a drink between...well, they probably still don’t count as friends. Exes? Maybe not that either.

Two people who could, by all traditional meanings of the phrase, definitely use a drink. That seems right.

“It’s basically a sweet, cold, alcoholic latte,” Tori says as she reaches into the fridge and takes out a carton of cream. “You want one or nah?”

“You know what, sure.”

Tori mixes Max’s drink with significantly less vodka than her own. She sits down across from Max and slides it over to her, and Max takes a taste. It’s about what Tori described, and she can barely taste the alcohol. As she sets it down, she works up the nerve to ask, “So... _all_ of your friends ditched you?”

“They had some pretty good reasons,” Tori admits, staring down into her glass. “It...it got really ugly.”

“What do you mean?”

“We screamed at each other for like four hours. I got all...” Tori waves her hand next to her head. “Like I was back at Blackwell, or something. Throwing everything she’d ever told me back in her face. Called her ugly, that was a fucking lie. I was so fucking pissed off and sad and I just couldn’t stand it. The idea of being alone again. But I fucked that up worse than if I’d just gone with it. I can’t blame her for telling all our friends to stay away from me.”

Max recognizes the tone in her voice, less frantic, less slurred and stumbling, but still it’s there. _It’s all me. Always has been. Nathan’s best friend. Jefferson’s bitch._ Something sharp juts in her chest, and she reaches a hand across the table. “Tori...”

Tori’s hand stays on her drink, the other going to her forehead. “I just wish I didn’t _do_ this shit, you know? That I could just let bad things happen and work through it like a normal fucking person instead of bombing every fucking bridge trying to get back some control. Did it at Blackwell. Did it here.”

“I’m still here,” Max says quietly.

“I wish I could be like you. All forgiveness and smiles and sunshine and freedom and shit.” Tori takes a quick swig of her drink. “I feel like I’m trapped in this fucking apartment. Felt like that for a long time, but...when Jackie asked me to move in with her, I...I don’t _know!_ It’s like this was the only stability I’ve had for forever and leaving it meant that everything could go wrong at once and I’d be out on the street and friendless again.” She sighs. “Well. At least I’m not out on the street.”

“Tori, I’m not the only person on the planet that can forgive people,” Max says. “If you just try and apologize—”

“Max, Jesus, I still haven’t apologized to you, and I almost killed you.” Tori finishes her drink, and Max is about to do the same to see if it will do anything good for her heartrate. Probably not. “I don’t—when I push people away like that, I don’t feel like it’s right, for me to act like I can fix it all up again, make it normal. The only reason I called you up is because you came to me first, back then. I would’ve never talked to you again, if I could’ve helped it.”

“Well...” Max takes a sip, trying to think of how to phrase the thought that’s worming around in her head. “Try it on me first, then.”

“Huh?”

“Try and apologize. See how it makes you feel.”

Tori looks at her glass like she really wishes there was more in there, and Max takes another sip. Waiting. To see if this will work.

“Max...” she begins, and something catches in her throat. “Max, I am so...I’m sorry I ruined your first time, I’m sorry I made you drink, I’m sorry I ever gave you those fucking pills, I’m sorry that my stupid fucked-up head and my temper and my...my love made you want to die. Made you try to...to...”

The word _love_ is what sticks in Max’s brain even as Tori slumps down and covers her eyes with her hand. It’s strange. She never thought of any of it as love before. It was mutual destruction, desperation, two damaged people reaching for each other with barbed claws. But Tori said _love_. Like somehow, that was the reason everything had gone to hell, not unresolved grief and pain and self-hatred.

Tori’s been thinking about it all wrong for twelve years.

Max reaches out and plucks Tori’s fingers from her glass, lightly laying their hands over each other. “Tori...it wasn’t love that was the problem.”

Tori sniffs, but her fingers slowly relax. “O-of course it was, I went so crazy over you, I basically fucking drugged you—”

“Love doesn’t make you do that. That was...that was everything we were both going through.” Max draws circles on the back of Tori’s hand. “It’s not like I was making the best decisions, either. The desire was there, you didn’t have to force it. But neither of us were thinking straight.”

Tori uncovers her eyes and looks at Max. “I—It just always felt like I had to get you fucked-up, somehow, or that you had to be out of your fucking mind in order to want me. At all.”

“I couldn’t say,” Max admits. “I’ll never know what we could’ve been if we hadn’t been so screwed-up that semester. Neither can you.”

“Do you ever think about...” Tori looks away. “About, if, that Halloween, if I’d just stayed in the backseat with you, just...let it happen, how things could’ve turned out? If I hadn’t pushed you away?”

“No,” Max says. “Really,” she adds as Victoria gives her a cockeyed glance. “I can only regret my own decisions, not yours. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone in with you. Maybe I shouldn’t have had so much to drink. But going back and reversing those decisions, trying to figure out what works best...you could fall into that forever.” An image of an immobile Chloe floats through her mind. “All we can do is take what we have, and try to keep going.”

“I still want to make it right,” Tori says.

Max considers her response as she finishes off her drink. She settles on, “You are. You apologized. You’re talking to me about it, and...and I’ve wanted to talk, for a long time. More than just dumping some advice on you and leaving.”

“No, I mean...” Tori takes in a deep breath. “I mean, I kind of...I want to try again.”

Max’s fingers clench, trapping Tori’s hand beneath them. She wants to say something, but her mouth is dry and her head’s empty. She’s not sure if this is fear or surprise or...or if she’s been waiting to hear that.

Tori looks right into her eyes. “I—I’m not gonna blame you if you say no, there’s like literally no fucking reason to go along with this, but...all our memories together suck. First I was a big stupid bully, then I was spiraling down fast and dragging you with me, and now I’m just some pathetic low-tier photographer that you feel sorry for. I want us to make at least one happy memory. I don’t wanna just be tied together by the shittiest parts of our lives.”

Her voice is so small and fading and vulnerable. Her prickly defenses have finally come down, like Halloween all over again. Max is staring. She’s remembering. What if this could really work? If they try?

Tori looks away. “Sorry, I’m sorry, it’s—I fucked everything up again.” She tries to pull away from Max’s hold. “You’re over me. I get it. I should be over you too.”

It feels like time is frozen. Like this is a flashpoint, like so many choices during that week of Hell all those years ago, two options staring her in the face. No going back. There’s a strange hum in Max’s head.

“Okay.”

“What?”

“I—I said okay. We can try.”

Tori looks distinctly alarmed. “Are you sure?” she pleads, staring into Max’s eyes again. “I mean, if we do, we’re both basically rebounding off each other, this could all go—”

“I said okay.” Max squeezes Tori’s hand.

Tori chokes on her next words, so she just stands up and puts her hands on the kitchen counter, hanging her head, facing away from Max. Max gets up and puts a hand on her shoulder, slowly turning her around so they’re face-to-face. Tori’s eyes shine beneath the veil of her hair. Her lips shake as Max cups her chin.

“Okay,” she repeats. It takes a lot of will to close the gap, but something’s flooding Max’s body, like she’s finally opened a pressure valve. As their lips meet, Max tastes cigarettes, coffee liqueur, and salt. She’d forgotten what women’s lips feel like, and Victoria’s were always beautiful and inviting, and Tori’s are somehow better without the lipstick. And this is not the chaste goodbye kiss of five years ago. It’s wet and sliding and kind of sloppy and it’s Tori’s hands wrapping around her waist and it’s Max grabbing the back of her hair and pushing their bodies together, and it all feels warm. Soft and warm, if a little frayed around the edges. This kiss is promising something. Immediately.

Tori breaks off first, breathing hard and trying to stand up straight instead of being half-bent over the counter. “Jesus, Max,” she says with a swallow. “I thought you’d want, like, a date first.”

“Too fast?” Max asks, stepping back despite not really wanting to. Tori doesn’t answer with words, biting her lip. The words _get out_ echo somewhere in her mind, and she clenches her fists to control the shaking. No. She wants this now, both of them do, it’s in Tori’s eyes, the pink in her cheeks, the sweatdrop on her neck. The attraction had always been strong before, in those hot-flash moments that ended so badly, and it’s back with a vengeance, pulsing in Max’s veins. And Max doesn’t want to calm down. She doesn’t want to think long and hard and soberly anymore, she’s _done_ with this week of moping and heartfelt talks and considerations of the future. Her fingertips are tingling and her nerves are buzzing and she wants to just indulge. Just one more taste.

Tori doesn’t object this time, bending down to save Max’s neck, wrapping her up in her arms again. Maybe this is how it has to be, between them. No slow slide into intimacy, no hazy evenings of contentment. Periods of light and dark, sensation and reason. Max’s heart pounds in her chest. Living life to an uneven beat could be an adventure. And from what Tori said, it’s what she needs now, too.

Victoria had always been the one pushing, last time. Always the one going fast and heavy and hard. This time, it’s Max who pulls her over to the bed. Who sits down on the edge and pulls off her own clothes instead of just letting Tori dig around and reach underneath them. Tori’s watching with a kind of amazed expression on her face, still biting her lip, and it takes a gentle, “Well?” from Max for her to start fumbling with her shoes.

Max feels strangely bold when she’s naked and Tori is just standing there in her socks and staring again.

“I, um,” Tori stammers, “I never actually got to see you naked before. Wow.”

“Well, I’m not eighteen anymore, so—”

“I wanna take a picture.”

Max feels a flush of pride roll through her skin. To be in Tori Chase’s eye as a model is the envy of the underground art world. But she’s not gonna pose. Not now.

“Next time,” she promises, reaching up and grabbing her by the collar. There will be a next time, this time. But now she just wants Tori close. Tori falls on top of her, all waiting lips and trembling fingers, and Max just laughs because this is right. This is how it should’ve been, both of them nervous and excited and losing themselves in each other, their shared pain years in the past, still there, but drowned out by time.

Max ends up with her head propped up on the pillows, Tori still clothed and kissing her hard, her hands on Max’s cheeks, breath hissing from her nose, their bodies practically writhing against each other. Max pulls back and grabs Tori’s hands. “ _Come on_ ,” she groans, pushing Tori’s hands lower.

“Okay, okay,” Tori laughs, shaking her hands free. One travels down, between Max’s legs, and starts slowly inching along her lips. The other goes back up, grabbing Max by the back of the neck and pressing her back into a kiss. Max wraps her arms around Tori, spreads her legs, lets the shudders run up her spine as Tori reacquaints herself with Max’s body. Before, it had been the pure rush of emotion that had led Max to climax, but now...well, now, Tori’s had some _experience_. It shows in the way she’s teasing Max, now, not just going straight for the point like a predator. Even if Max kind of wants her to.

“ _Come on_ ,” she pleads, breaking off Tori’s kiss.

Tori chuckles. “Okay, no romance then? You want me to just...”

Max remembers a choice phrase from the cab. She remembers blushing. She smirks. “Fuck me into the ground.”

Tori looks down at her, eyes wide. She brushes her hair behind her ear. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

“Okay.”

Max gasps as Tori’s fingers suddenly start rubbing frantically, perfectly positioned, perfectly paced to send a pulse of tension up her back, forcing her face toward the ceiling, forcing her eyes closed. “Is that better?” Tori whispers in her ear, and it’s probably supposed to be seductive and teasing but the question is genuine, so Max nods forcefully. She lets out a moan as a finger enters her, Tori’s hands growing ever-bolder, and now Max is clinging to her like she’ll float away if she doesn’t, and she feels like she _will_ , like Tori’s transporting her to some event horizon outside of time because her whole body feels like it’s a rubber band ready to snap and—

And it snaps. She doesn’t even realize how much she’s been arching her back until she’s undone and collapsing onto the bed, black spots blotting out her vision, mouth hanging open, nothing but choking sounds coming out. After a moment, the wave curls and crashes back down, and a shiver runs from her toes to her neck. She breathes heavily, closing her eyes as the laughter starts building in her lungs, escaping in little giggles. She feels Tori’s fingers dancing on her chest.

“Do you always laugh when you come?”

Max just giggles harder.

Tori’s fingers get a little bolder, one drawing small circles on Max’s nipple. Max starts laughing and that apparently just emboldens Tori further, because a second later her tongue is swirling on that hard point and Max’s limbs are tightening again, so quickly but, God, why not, she’s having so much fun.

She feels Tori sit up for a moment and opens her eyes, smacking her in the side with an open palm. “Hey!” But then she sees what Tori is practically contorting herself to do, leaning over and digging in the drawer of the nightstand, and she’s pulling out something silver and smooth and shiny and _oh._

Before Tori opens her mouth, Max just babbles, “Yes, yes, yes, yes. Yes,” and bears witness to Tori’s face lighting up. Tori positions herself next to Max instead of on top of her, the better to run the toy down the center of her chest, humming to herself as Max waits for the vibrations to hit where they’re supposed to go. She watches Tori’s face, taking the teasing as more of a break than anything else, and sees a contented smile, an eager gleam in her eyes, to do more. Max wants to rip her stupid clothes off, but then the toy’s gliding between her lower lips and she starts slipping back into that event horizon, comfortable with Tori’s body beside her, Tori’s tender but firm play. This is how it should’ve felt.

The buzz against her clit stops, but Max barely has time to mourn its loss before Tori’s climbing over her again, and down, and she only has a moment to grip onto Tori’s hair before she has to whisper, “Holy shit,” because her tongue is a goddamned acrobat down there and Max’s whole lower body is shuddering and bucking against it, and Max is thrashing her head back and forth and gritting her teeth and trying to contain herself but that is impossible.

She doesn’t laugh this time, she just groans out Tori’s name and bends forward, hunching over her head, keeping her trapped between her legs. Tori mumbles some objection but Max just wants to stay here, because the aftershocks are still running through her fingers and she likes the way it feels when they tingle against Tori’s hair. Her muscles ache pleasantly. Tori softly kisses her clit, sending a little shiver through Max, and then she says, “Max, seriously, my neck hurts.”

With a laugh, Max falls back onto her back, and a moment later Tori’s back on top of her, sharing Max’s own taste with her. After a minute or two of contented cuddling, Max tugs at the back of Tori’s collar.

“My turn,” she complains when Tori doesn’t move.

“Aren’t you—”

“ _My turn._ ”

Tori draws back for a minute, an amused look in her eye. “Jesus, Max, I never knew you could be like this. You’re all selfless and nice and self-sacrificing the rest of the—”

Max groans. “Tori, we’re done with the feelings-talk, come _on_.”

“Oh my God,” Tori sighs, suppressing a laugh. “Apparently it takes some work to tire you out. Such a thankless job.”

“I’m gonna literally tear these clothes off,” Max warns, sitting up and taking hold of the hem of Tori’s shirt.

“Like those skinny little arms could—”

Max lifts, and Tori’s silenced by the fabric coming over her mouth. Max keeps it there for a second, taking the opportunity to stare at Tori’s breasts, nestled in an unexpectedly lacy black bra, thin sheer sections showing nice hints of the flesh beneath. Apparently, Tori still has a fashion sense, it’s just confined beneath the not-giving-a-shit getup. Max pulls the shirt the rest of the way off and flings it against the door to the balcony.

She buries her head between Tori’s tits and puts an ear to her heart, relishing in the way it beats at the same tempo as her own. She feels Tori’s chest shaking and jiggling as she unhooks her own bra, and Max pulls back to help her pull it off her arms. Once Tori’s free, Max takes both of her breasts in her hands and squeezes, and God, they feel just as soft as twelve years ago, and Tori makes the same sounds as Victoria did, only better because everything about this is so much fucking better. Tori tries to get her pants off as Max starts sucking on a nipple, feeling Tori squirm under her and wanting to help out with that, too, but she’s only got so many hands and Tori can handle that part for now, even if she is panting and shaking as she unzips herself. Max eventually has to draw back for a minute so Tori can fully lay down and slide her pants and matching panties off, and when Max finally sees all of Tori, she licks her lips.

Tori still keeps herself smooth, and at that thought, Max finally feels a little of her normal state of embarrassment flow through her, remembering her own largely unmanaged hair. Tori can still make her feel inferior even without trying, even after everything. But Max realizes that Tori doesn’t care because now she’s positioning her crotch against Max’s, lifting one of her legs, and Max feels very acutely how wet Tori is, how ready she is, and she’s watching Tori bite her lip as they start thrusting against each other, folds sliding together, slick noises and little Tori moans filling the apartment. The old, faded scars on the inside of Tori’s thighs tingle against Max’s skin, but there are no fresh ones, no sign that blood has flowed for a long while, and somehow, that means that Max’s head doesn’t get stuck there.

Instead, Max can swear she feels Tori’s blood pumping through her clit, that’s how close they are, that’s how intimate and perfect and connected this moment is, and the best part of this whole thing is the angle. Max gets to see Tori’s face, gets to see her totally lose control in the good way. Gets to watch her hair fall away and reveal her chiseled features, the way her face crinkles when she squeezes her eyes closed, the upturned corners of her pursed lips. Max’s reverie is broken by the sound of the abandoned vibrator rolling off the bed and clattering to the floor, and then by the jolt of lightning up her spine as Tori finally finds the perfect position for both of them.

Max lets out a sound of struggle, like pain, because she is almost raw, or she would be if she wasn’t still so fucking wet, and she’s not even sure she can take much more, not sure she can really reach a third peak, until she does. This one hits her suddenly because she was too busy staring at and listening to Tori. She jerks herself away as the sensation fries all her nerve endings and her muscles give out, her legs splaying to either side of her. She wants to make sure Tori’s happy, she wants to be a good, unselfish partner, but the exhaustion is seeping into her bones and she almost passes out, a hand going to her forehead, her mouth just croaking the word _fuck_ as she feels Tori lay down on top of her again. Tori’s grinding herself against Max’s leg, and Max weakly wraps her up in an embrace and feels her finish herself off, groaning Max’s name into her shoulder, freezing in place, and then collapsing, the two of them a panting heap on the bed.

As they fight to get their breathing under control, Max thinks of other times. Worse times. It’s kind of funny that they led here, so she asks, “Is this the part where you tell me to get out?”

“No,” Tori moans, “No, no, no, no,” and her voice breaks, and Max holds her tight and whispers, “Sorry,” and “It’s okay,” because it is. That old pain is peeling away as they share each other’s warmth. Rejection, Max’s own uselessness, the dead twelve years in the grave, the monsters still behind bars. Like an old sunburn, those memories dry up and lose their painful edge. Still ugly, still in need of a cleansing, but no longer do they itch on Max’s skin.

Eventually, the sweat dries. They gather up a little composure, and the cold night air leaks in from under the balcony door. Untangling the covers is a joint, giggling effort, but it gets done, and Tori lies cradled in Max’s arms, head on her chest, breath gliding across Max’s bare skin. As Max’s vision dims, she thinks maybe, maybe this can be it. Maybe this time, it’ll work.

But still, she dreams of storms.

 

* * *

 

Tori wakes alone.

She kind of expected to.

_Did you really think that fucking her that hard would make her want to stay?_

For a moment, she panics, imagines that Max has flung herself from the balcony because that’s what being with Victoria Fucking Chase _does_ to her, and she rushes out with the covers around her and leans over the balcony railing and no, she’s not there. She’s just gone.

But maybe that’s all right. They did try again, and now there’s an answer to that old question, even if Tori doesn’t really like it. She goes back inside and throws on an oversized t-shirt, sits down at her desk to think. The wastebasket underneath is filled with crumpled letters that tried to say everything that she’d said last night, scraggly apologies in blue ink, never good enough to send. She doesn’t want to look at them anymore, so she digs around her apartment until she finds a pack of cigarettes. Then it’s back to the balcony. A smoke. That’ll give her some time to think about where to go now.

But as the cigarette burns down, her mind fights her. _No, you’re not okay with this. No. That was so fucking awesome. Max is so fucking awesome. You love her so goddamn much, you cannot let her slip away, you have to try. You have to run out into the world with her and find some inspiration and find some love and some hope and some excitement again and you have to give her all that love you’ve been carrying in your heart for so long and you’ve only let go in little controlled bursts or big overwhelming floods where it mixed with the sewage of pain. You have to try._

She flicks the cigarette over the edge, goes back in, and scrounges in last night’s pants for her phone. She dials with shaking fingers as she sits on the edge of her bed. _God, Max, pick up. Please. Let me at least say this. Even if you don’t agree._

“Tori?”

“Max, I love you so fucking much, please, I’ll do anything, I want to travel the world with you and live your life with you, I’ll never tie you down, I swear—”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Then—then where the hell are you?”

“I’m coming back.”

Tori’s heart leaps in her chest. “Really?”

“I wasn’t gonna leave without saying goodbye. I woke up at like five, I thought you’d still be asleep by the time I got back.”

“Where the hell are you?” Tori repeats.

“I’m coming back, I said. But are you really serious? You want to go the whole nine yards with me? I’m a flake, you know. Ask anyone.”

“I’ll flake with you.”

“Where to?”

“Let’s go to Chernobyl.”

Max’s laugh is divine. “You know how to show a girl a good time.”

“We could make some great photos together. You with the light, me with the dark. Old places, where people used to be, where the animals and the wild are now. Can you see it?”

“I can,” and Max sighs, “I can.”

“Tomorrow. Flight to the Ukraine.”

“Sure. But first you have to open your door.”

The call cuts off, and Tori jumps to her feet and leaves her phone on her bed. She pads up to her door and flings it open, and there she is. She’s holding something in her hands. “I was supposed to give you this last night,” she says, looking down at the gold-wrapped box. “Got kind of swept up in things, left it at Alex’s.”

Without hesitation, Tori takes the gift and sets it on the counter and then just holds Max. It doesn’t matter what’s in the box. She can look at it later. Max has already given her the gift she’s needed for a long time. _Later_. Later she can apologize to Jackie and her friends, because Max gave her practice. Later Tori can find some inspiration with Max by her side. Later she and Max can work on this whole thing, really get to know each other, as adults, as equals, as friends and lovers and more and more and more. There’s a future out there, of cooperative artistry and long nights together and terrific sex and knowledgeable, directed wandering.

Tori doesn’t know it yet, but what’s also later is knowledge of storms, and time travel, and a week of false memories, and an artistic career based a little bit on white lies and a little bit on magic. Later is Max’s full story of watching her best friend die, over and over. Later is Tori’s unquestioning acceptance of that insanity, because later is a visit to Max’s parents’ and an uncovering of photographs that never could have been taken in this timeline, hidden away in that old camera bag with that old Polaroid.

Later is really talking about October, 2013. Later is love, and connection, and real reconciliation and understanding, and shared secrets of supernatural shitshows.

Now is relief. Now is hope. Now, there is a cloudless sky and long early morning shadows stretching through a studio apartment, and two women, holding each other. It's old pain, peeling away.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> _In this optimistic and fresh photograph,_   
>  _We stand and hold hands at the start of a path_   
>  _And we look to each other,_   
>  _And tell one another,_   
>  _"I love you, you won't walk alone."_
> 
> Inspired primarily by Whitney Flynn's verses from ["Self-Destruction Anthem,"](https://daysndaze.bandcamp.com/track/self-destructive-anthem-feat-we-the-heathens) by Days 'N Daze, quoted at the beginning. Along with ["Tarnished Ol' Photograph,"](https://daysndaze.bandcamp.com/track/tarnished-ol-photograph) quoted here, and a lot of their other work. Thanks, Josh, wherever you wander now. 
> 
> And as always, thank you all for reading.


End file.
